Opening Skirmish
by Thessaly
Summary: [WWRY] It was going to be a very long night, what with confused angst from one party, open hostility from the other, and hormones from both.  That’s Under Pressure to you.  Rating for language, not content! Yes, that is a new title.


From William Rose Benet's _Reader's Encyclopedia_.

**Scaramucchia** (Fr. Scaramouche; Eng, Scaramouch). Literally "skirmish." A stock character of the Italian _Commedia dell'Arte_. He took the place of the older _Capitano_ when the Spaniards lost their influence in Italy; also the name of a swordsman in Rafael Sabatini's historical novel Scaramouche.

Standard "don't own it" jokes apply. Much show dialogue lifted (with permission) from the work of MissLoaf91, and credit to Hope4Faith, who taught me that Scara's glare is a formidable thing. Plus I want to see Tekya do the Taking Over Section dance again. I'm fascinated by the Galileo/Scaramouche relationship, and I'm trying to translate the Under Pressure nuances from a dramatic medium to a purely literary one. So yes, this is kind of an exercise for me. I'll post something with a plot soon, I promise, but until then, please criticize. What do we think of Scara's accent? Gazz's interior monologue? How is the tension (sexual, romantic, personal, etc)? And, this is important, is it funny?

He was dreaming again. _I've had my share of sand kicked in my face, but I've come through_. It looked like the front of a school – his school, if it must be admitted, but since when had his dreams had any useful value? – with the Gaga girls lounging in front of those ghastly white columns. He looked at their brightly-coloured miniskirts and jackets, with the sprayed hair and shiny lip-gloss. He wouldn't have complained about the glitter – he liked glitter – but it was so...tacky. And they all did it. They were dressed differently, certainly, with different hair and nails and stuff, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was watching five clones. Someone stumbled out of one of the side doors and paused. He – her? it? – was clothed in black, in strong contrast to the violent Gaga colour.

Someone in his dream said, "_You_ are such a s_a-a_d loner," in the plastic voice of a Gaga girl.

Someone else said, "Well, you sure are right about that..._bitch_." He grinned, and the image spun crazily, and he thought he saw a tall icy figure with pale hair and an immaculate suit. He was holding onto the person in black, who flailed his – her? its? – arms and kicked. He could hear swearing somewhere in the background, which finally exploded into a yell of rage and perhaps a little fright. Commander Khashoggi said in a staticky voice, "Christ, get rid of it," and shook his hand as though bitten. _Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fandango?_

And, somewhere else, he woke up.

It was that quick – one minute he was asleep, the next he wasn't. He'd always been a light, and occasional, sleeper, far more interested in surfing at night than wasting time sleeping. Then later the night had become his private time, to do forbidden things, like write longhand, or turn off his computer and simply stare at the ceiling. Time even to wallow in his own despair and self-loathing.

But he wasn't at home anymore. He was – somewhere else. Where, anyway? His mind was curiously blank. Cautiously, for he knew how his brain worked in that he knew it was completely unpredictable and capable of giving him some crazy shit when he needed fact, tried to remember. Something. Anything.

_Galilo Figaro_. Seven liquid syllables engraved on the unusual darkness of his mind. There was, as there had been in the geoscience class when these particular words occurred to him, a moment of appreciation and then a warm flush of self-recognition. _Galileo Figaro. That's me_. He still thought it was strange that two crazy, dangerous words like that should have such a strong effect on him when he'd had a perfectly normal name for seventeen years. But the perfectly normal name was – perfectly normal. It didn't conjure the images of _Galileo Figaro_, nor leave the trailing vowel sounds like comet-tails in his mind. _So_, Galileo concluded, _I'm still me. And I still know who I am_. He was glad; he'd spent a little too much time imagining what happened to rebels, and he thought it had something to do with memory wiping.

He pulled himself to a sitting position, looking around the room. It was white and high-ceilinged, and full of hospital beds. The blankness in his mind disappeared, and the voices surged up again, offering their take on the situation. _Here is comes, here it comes…here comes your nineteenth nervous breakdown. When it only seems to make matters worse…_ "Shut up," he said to the voices, which subsided a little.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and let them hang, nibbling on his lower lip as he stared around at the room. Those voices…they had echoed in his head all his life, it seemed like. It was like having a running commentary all the time. It was weird to be alone, without being afraid it was wrong. He'd been crazy, psycho, all his life because of the words, and because he wanted to be alone sometimes. He'd always felt that overwhelming guilt of being the wrong shape, wearing the wrong clothes, being the wrong person. He felt it when Emma flipped her blonde pony-tale and said, "God, my brother's such a _loser_." When his mother looked at his jeans and jacket and hair-cut, thin-lipped and cold-eyed. When his father got him into the car after his second hospital discharge and drove home without speaking. And it had always, always, been His Fault. Never Emma's fault, never Mum's fault, never Dad's fault. _You have to adjust…you have so much potential…you just need to calm down…try not to think outside the box so much, it will only confuse you…Apply yourself…_

The whiteness of the walls and the oppressive silence bothered him a little bit, and it occurred to him to wonder what he was supposed to do now. Should he leave? Were they coming back for him? He gnawed his lip, mired in indecision. There was a slight sound and Galileo jumped, expecting to see Commander Khashoggi, or one of the Yuppies, or something even more frightening.

He had shifted forward and dislodged his jacket, which fell to the ground. It landed with bifurcated percussiveness, the mobile and keys in the front pocket hitting the floor with a sharp _thunka-thunk_ and the rest of the jacket following with the swish of leather. Something in the rhythm of his falling possessions suggested a word, the first half hard vowels, protecting the yielding softness of the second half: _scara-mouche_. He rolled the word over in his mind, playing with it, as he did with so many of the strange treasures that found their way there. _Scaramouche_, hard and soft at the same time. It was, he felt instinctively, a name, like his, or like the other names that he had discovered. _Lennon. Eminem. Bowie. Shakira. Mercury._ Names that tasted of dreams and promises and glittering excitement. Free names, that knew no bounds and ignored rules. They weren't Gaga names – they were alive. He tried the new name again, _Scaramouche_. A fighter's name. He wondered who Scaramouche was, just as he had wondered about Galileo, and Figaro, and all of the other ones.

He heard the noise again, a muffled sigh, and the untidy blankets on one of the other beds moved. Galileo started again. He hadn't even noticed there was someone else there. The bedding thrashed and eventually parted to show a face. And it was with a fighter's name in his mind, and his own name, newborn and tender, on his lips, that he met the girl.

He stared at her. He couldn't help it. She just didn't look like anything else he'd seen before. She wasn't pretty – certainly not by Gaga standards. Her hair was black and very untidy, caught up in funny spiky bunches on either side of her head, and streaked – badly – with purple. She was wearing something Galileo decided could charitably be termed a dress, though it was baggy, with uneven large sleeves. When she sat up and crossed her legs he could see she wore men's work boots, heavy, black, untied, and probably dangerous. She stared back at him, though with more judgement. She didn't look very impressed. Galileo spoke first, with the stutter he thought he'd cured. "Hello, G-g-ga-gaga girl." He could feel his face a painful red. _She's going to think I'm a right twat._

She scowled. If there were ever a face born to scowl, it belonged to this girl, with her hair in her eyes and her "don't fuck with me" attitude. "I ain't no G-g-ga-gaga girl," she answered, training the scowl on Galileo with precision. "An' I don't answer questions. Who're you?"

"I'm –" he started to give his old name, realized it wasn't right either, or wouldn't be right, not under that scowl. He tried to fight it, but wasn't sure he succeeded. He settled for the truth. "I don't know who I am."

"Well, that must make things a bit difficult," she said. If she hadn't been quite so hostile he would have thought that she was laughing at him.

Galileo, watching her face, stony and angry behind her hair, decided that if anybody was going to meet him as Galileo Figaro, it would be this girl, seething with rebellion. "But I do know that my name is Galileo Figaro," he said, offering her the syllables that had so delighted him.

Her scowl was interrupted so she could blink. Then she said, "S'a nice name," rather flatly.

He certainly thought so. "Thank you," he said. It was nice to know some other people liked it too.

Her scowl deepened again and she rolled her eyes. "I wasn't bein' _ser_ious."

"…oh." Galileo felt himself wilt this time. It _was_ a nice name. He felt a pointless competitive urge rise: he was going to make it one, even if _she_ didn't think he could.

"Mind if I shorten it?"

"Well," he began. Now that she mentioned it, yes, he rather did mind. The two words went together. He wasn't just Galileo, or just Figaro. He was both. "I suppose Galileo would be - "

"So, Gazza," she said, resting her hands on her knees, "Whad'cha do to get in here?"

_GAZZA?_ Galileo stared at her in outrage. But she couldn't – It wasn't – He couldn't even find the right words. "My name isn't Gazza," he said, still surprised. "It's Galileo. Galileo Figaro."

"You fink I'm gonna say all that?" she said. "You're takin' the mickey, aren't you?"

"Well, what would you do if I called you Kylie? It's the same thing," said Galileo. He was starting to get annoyed.

You could see the reaction in her face, lighting quick behind the hair. "I'd fucking kill you," she said, so softly, so clearly, that Galileo believed her.

"Fine. Um," he said, trying to get her off the topic. He searched around for something to talk about. "I'm here because I hear sounds, words, you know. I'm dangerous." He was different, as he well knew. But for once he didn't feel ashamed of it. He felt like an equal; like he wanted to prove to this fierce girl that he was important, special. He tasted the unfamiliar desire for approval, and wondered at it. "I hear them in my head." He bit his lower lip again. "I'm mad, I guess." She watched him. The scowl dimmed a bit, but the stare continued relentlessly. "What about you?"

"I was arrested," she said the word like it stuck in her teeth, "'cause they," she paused to yell the next few words at someone just out of earshot, "don't like the way I dress."

"I think you dress beautifully," said Galileo before considering exactly what effect the word "beautiful" would have on this girl. It wasn't precisely true – her dress was pretty unfortunate – but something about the guts that made it, by hand, he suspected, was intriguing. And against all reasonable assumption, the dress suited her and her mad purple hair and her gnawed fingernails.

She blinked again. It was the only response he could get from her face. He wondered if she ever smiled. "Thas' nice."

"Thank you."

"…'cept coming from a self-confessed _nutter_."

_Damn_. He should have learned not to believe her when she sounded like she was being polite. She spoke again, sounding curious, but not particularly contrite. "So what kind'a sounds d'you hear?"

"I don't know," he said, looking away from her and down at his hands, resting in his lap. He touched the inside of his right wrist, running his finger over the soft ridges of scar tissue and the slight catch of the scabs. He tended to fidget when he got nervous. He heard sounds, all right. The kind of sounds that could drive you crazy, if you weren't already. _The sensation's overwhelming, tell me that I won't feel the pain, so give me novocaine_. But he sure as hell wasn't telling her that.

"D'you know anyfing?"

He looked up at her again, wrapping his left hand around his right wrist for comfort. "I know that I'm different," he said, softly, finally giving up the one thing he was sure about. There were a few things he knew that went down to his core; one was his name, and the second was an instinctive knowledge, too deep for arrogance, that he was different. "That's why the Zone boys hate me."

For the first time in this odd conversation, the girl's eyes dropped, and Galileo saw her face soften a little as the glare slipped away. He thought of the fighter in his dream, staggering outside into the sunshine, face tipped up to drink the liquid gold of nature and the real world. "The Gaga girls hate me, too," she said quietly. "I'm a freak, right."

Something about the way her shoulders slumped, just a little, reminded him of himself, and the thoughts that crowded into his brain at two in the morning. Very nervous, he reached out across the bed and touched the back of her wrist. She jumped and he pulled back. "Why's that?"

Her face firmed up again, impenetrable and permanently pissed off. "They fink I'm a lesbian 'cause I don't wear pastels," she said contemptuously. Galileo was glad he wasn't on the receiving end of that; it was probably worse than her normal glares.

"You're different too," Galileo said. She was – he could feel it. "That's why they're afraid of you. Because you stand for something they've never even thought of and doesn't fit into their tiny brains. You're," he searched for the right word, trying to convince her, "you're an individual."

"Whatever," she said. "I'm dunno where we are, but I ain't going back." She looked around at the hospital. "What'd they do to us?"

"I don't know."

"Surprise, surprise," she said, with a little less annoyance than usual. She shivered. "I remember getting arrested, right. Commander Khashoggi's fuckin' terrifying." Then she sighed. "D'you ever fink they'll just leave us alone?"

Again, he was sure. "No," he said.

"I don't believe you."

"They won't," he said firmly. "I don't know the small stuff, but there are some things I'm sure about. This is one of them – we're in something big, see, and they're not going to leave us alone till its done." She still looked skeptical, although it might have just been the rakish tilt of her bandage. "Don't you see? We're a threat." He pulled his legs up on the bed, kneeling. "A," he searched for the right comparison, "a virus on their hard drive and they won't give up until they've pointed their little arrow at us…"

The fear made her sarcasm fall away, and for once, her face looked her age: eighteen, perhaps, and a little scared. "…and dragged us to trash," she said, her eyes getting very big. "We gotta get out of here, Gazz!"

"It's – " he began, trying to correct her.

She jumped off the bed, landing heavily on those lethal-looking boots. "Know somefing, Gazz?"

"What?" he said wearily, climbing down to join her.

"I don't care." Her head tilted a little, and he thought –

"Bloody hell," he said, peering at her.

"What?"

"Did you just smile?"

They stared at each other. Galileo was surprised to find she only came up to his shoulder; somehow he'd expected her to be taller. But her glare made up for it. Then she smirked. "You _chee_ky monkey." She sounded almost surprised. "You do have a sense of humour." Then she shrugged. "Come on, Gazz, we're under pressure here. Do the doors open?"

He didn't bother to say he didn't know, and went over the try the doors. She tried the windows. "These are the days it never rains but it pours," he muttered. The voices in his head suggested a tune, so he sang it. "It's the terror of knowing what this world is about, watching a good friend screaming,"

"Let me out." The unknown girl joined him for a line or two, and he was surprised to hear that she had a good voice, a little husky but with a lot of power held behind it. _Not a bad alto at all_, he thought, then wondered how she knew how to sing in the first place. _And why the hell am I thinking that anyway?_ Insanity laughs, under pressure we're cracking...

"Oi, Gazz, this one works." He went over to her, standing beside a waist-high, now open, window. "Go for it."

"No, you first."

"No, you."

"No, really…"

"Come on," she said, glaring at him again. "Don't be a wimp, Gazz."

"It's Galileo," he said, then grabbed her waist. She flinched again.

"Lemme go!"

"Just get out." She wasn't very heavy, but difficult enough to shove through the window. She twisted out of his grasp and jumped by herself.

Galileo climbed over the sill second, and jumped after her. Unfortunately, he missed somewhat, and landed on something soft.

"Ouch! God dammit, Gazz, can't you aim?"

"Sorry!" He rolled over, and felt a warm arm under one hand and warm – um – other parts under the other hand.

He received a fairly hefty push that tipped him over again onto his back. "Oi , now that is _well_ out of line," said the girl's voice in the dark next to him. He could feel her arm next to his, almost touching it. He wondered what would happen if he were to take her hand, or something. "Watch it, won't'cha?" Or not. He'd probably end up dismembered in the alley.

"I said sorry," he said, affronted. "I didn't do it on purpose, you know."

He felt her sit up and he pulled himself up as well. "S'OK, I guess." He could feel her breath, warm and very near his face. Near enough to – Near enough for a lot of things. He swallowed.

She moved in a rustle of ugly dress, and then he was leaning towards a puff of cool air. "Right." Was it just him, or did she sound just a touch less assured than usual? "Let's get a move on."

"Yeah, I know. Under pressure." He stood up, wincing. That had kind of hurt. Kind of a lot. "You coming?"

"No, not even breafing hard." He heard something mellow from her then, a light evening laugh.

"What?" The laughter lingered on the edge of his hearing and he wanted to reach out and catch it, that uncharacteristic softness. To be able to hold it out to her and say, look, this is what you really are, under several layers of PMS. You with your alto and your evening laughter, you crazy witch-girl, full of anger and sweetness.

Another faint laugh. "Never mind. I'll tell you when you're older." And he followed her because he didn't have a choice.

They came out at the end of the alley, facing on a wide street, lit by pale yellow street lights and sided by immense glass-sided buildings. It was a normal street – the kind Galileo was used to seeing every day. He'd never seen one during the night though.

"'S weird in the dark, you know?" she said, quietly.

"It's like we're the only people in the world," said Galileo.

"Yeah."

He turned. "All right, let's hit the streets, 'cause Baby, we were born to run!"

She grabbed his arm and he turned back, into a full-power, mega-watt glare that nearly sent him running the other way. "_Don't_ call me Baby."

"What? But it's what in my head," he said. It was true.

"Well, keep it there, mate," she said darkly.

"You should be glad I don't say everything that comes into my mind," he pointed out.

"Trust me, I am ," she said.

They didn't speak much as they ran out of the sleeping city. It was only on the outskirts that they stopped: tired, worn out, and a little silly.

The girl leaned against the dumpster and sighed explosively, sending a puff of hair forward.

"Hey," he began to say, then stopped. "Hey, what _is_ your name, anyway?"

She threw him a mutinous look. "Don't got one."

"You can't not have a name!"

"Oh yeah?" She paused. "Well, fine. But I sure as hell ain't gonna keep it. I'll get a new one."

He looked at her, her fatigue tempering that glare. Hard first, soft second. _She'll keep on fighting, till the end_. He leaned next to her, remembering his dream. It might have been her. "Well," he said, trying to phrase it so that she didn't kill him. "I think – I think I dreamed a name for you."

"Yeah?" she looked interested.

"Scaramouche," he said.

"What?"

"It's a name. It's your name." He searched for an example. The obliging voices produced one. "Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fangando?"

She pulled away, her glare this time skeptical. "Are you tryin' to get into my pants?"

"What? But you're not wearing – " He could feel himself blush. "I mean, no! Definitely not!"

"Yeah, you probably aren't." She thought for a moment. "Everyone's gonna call me Scary Bush." She scowled.

Galileo blinked. It had never occurred to him. "No they won't."

"My mum would." She scuffed one of her appalling boots in the dirt and sighed again. "Scaramouche, huh?"

"It's a fighter's name."

She looked sideways at him. "Yeah, I guess it is. 'S not a bad name." There, just on the left corner of her mouth, was the hint of smile. He reached forward to push the hair out of her eyes. Again, she flinched, but stayed still while he guided her hair back. When his fingers grazed her cheek, they both jumped, and Galileo dropped his hand quickly. The smile became a little clearer, almost real. "Thanks, Gazz."

He sighed. "It's _Galileo_." She laughed again, that slight, surprised gurgle, and he found himself leaning forward, heart beating fast. He'd never kissed a girl. He'd never wanted to, till now. Her face swam closer into his vision, her eyes not romantically closed at all, but wide open and almost grinning at him. There was a still moment. Then the distant sound of sirens.

"Shit," said the newly-christened Scaramouche.

"We'd better go," said Galileo.

They looked at each other, then, and said without thinking, "Right - under pressure." Both grinned and, for the first time in the life of either, saw an identical flicker of humour in the other's eyes and experienced the shock of sharing something without having to say it. Then, a little shaken, they turned and ran.

It was going to be a very long night.


End file.
